


nothing breaks like a heart

by hellstrider



Series: Thousand Miles Verse [7]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Despite the title there is no actual heartbreak, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fixed that mortality thing, Idiots in Love, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Scent Kink, Scenting, Vampire!Jaskier, Vampires, blood & wine, more to come in later fics, very slight regis/dettlaff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: "do you still - want me?"
Relationships: Dettlaff van der Eretein/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Thousand Miles Verse [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1587544
Comments: 17
Kudos: 579





	nothing breaks like a heart

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song of the same name by mark ronson & miley cyrus
> 
> tumblr: thebardjaskier
> 
> reupload

_“It might not take, Geralt,”_

_“G-Geralt – l-look at me, look… Look at me, beloved,”_

_“_ Jaskier _,”_

 _“If there’s – a_ chance _,”_

_“Regis,”_

_“Hold him still, Geralt,_

_Hold him still,_

_And pray,”_

And,

Geralt opens his eyes,

As the memory spins through his skull,

And,

Jaskier lies _so_ still and so _silent_ on the cot in front of the roaring fire,

As his body knits itself back together,

As _sinew_ and _muscle_ and _skin_ weave over exposed _bone_ ,

As he’s _ripped apart_ and _remade_ in real time before them, _but_ ,

“It’s taking well, the transformation,” and Regis’ voice is a soothing balm to the frayed edges of Geralt’s too-slow heart, and when the vampire sets a hand on his shoulder, Geralt doesn’t shrug it away; “he’s not screaming in agony, so that’s a good sign,”

And _Geralt can’t –_

He can’t quite find his _voice_ ,

Because there’s an invisible _fist_ around his throat, threatening to _throttle_ the life from him,

As he gazes at Jaskier’s face, wan and _pallid_ , glimmering with sweat as he –

As he _changes_ , and,

“Every time I shut my eyes,” Geralt murmurs as Regis brings up a stool to sit beside him, and they’re hidden away in Regis’ temporary home in Toussaint – a _crypt_ , because _of fucking course_ it’s a crypt – and Jaskier has a slow-healing bite on his throat in the shape of Regis’ teeth, fading bruises all over his body, new flesh growing over his exposed ribs, _and_ , “I see him fall,”

_I see him fall as the Bruxa tears into him,_

_I see him fall as the arrow sinks into him,_

_I see him fall as I fail him, time and again,_

_How am I deserving of this love,_

_When all I do is let him break?_

And,

“Don’t get too lost in the quagmire of your guilt, old friend,” Regis says sagely, “he will need you on the other side of this,”

“ _Me_ ,” Geralt grunts quietly, “all I’ve done is _condemn_ him to a life of pain,”

“I think he’d quite disagree.”

“Of course he would. He’s a damn _fool_.”

“So are we all when it comes to love,” the vampire says, and Geralt, by some miracle, manages to tear his gaze from Jaskier to look towards Regis; the vampire smiles faintly, brow furrowing as he reaches out to grasp Geralt’s shoulder again,

As he says, “but do not become the fool that _runs_ from it, Geralt. The way you spoke of the bard – I have _never_ seen such softness in you, my friend.”

_You belong to someone,_

_Do not squander it,_

And,

Geralt’s too-slow heart feels like a fading ember as he turns his gaze back to Jaskier, glimmering with sweat as his body remakes itself in real time before him,

As he _changes_ , and,

The Witcher reaches out with a careful hand to trace Jaskier’s cheekbone with a knuckle,

Chases the edge of his jaw until he can thumb over his softly parted lips,

Lips that were, not a day ago, coated in Geralt’s own blood as he fed Jaskier from his wrist, and the bard had been _delirious_ , had been _begging_ for the pain to _stop_ , for -

“ _Geralt,_ please _, Geralt, Geralt,”_ and,

No amount of ‘ _I’m here, little lark, I’m right here_ ,’ could _soothe_ him, and he didn’t quiet until he’d fallen back into a _restless_ , healing slumber,

The second _Geralt_ has been the reason for,

Because _Geralt_ had been _fool enough_ to take a job hunting some _mythical thing_ the people of Toussaint had taken to calling the _Beast of Beauclair,_

But this _mythical thing_ had turned out to be a _higher fucking vampire_ ,

And this _higher fucking vampire_ had thought it _wise_ to take what _belonged_ to one _Geralt of Rivia_ in a _desperate_ bid to beat Geralt into a _truce_ ,

Because this _higher fucking vampire_ had a _purpose_ , here in Toussaint,

Wouldn’t be _persuaded_ from it, not even when Regis had tried to _reason_ with him as _Geralt_ had tried to hold Jaskier together on the leaf-littered marble floor in the _ruins_ of what had once been a _ballroom_ in the estate where the _higher fucking vampire_ had _kept Jaskier hostage,_

And the silence becomes so fucking _heavy_ as Geralt cups Jaskier’s cheek,

As he measures and weighs _every_ pain he’s ever felt these hundred odd years,

But _nothing_ ,

Not a _single_ thing,

Has _ever_ compared to –

“I have never loved like this,” Geralt confesses, voice aching in his throat as he gazes upon Jaskier’s slumbering visage, “ _never_ ,”

“A love worth dying for is a love worth living for, my friend,”

And,

“Is that why?” and Geralt looks to Regis then, hand still curved around Jaskier’s cheek as he eyes the vampire, “is that why you let Dettlaff go?”

And _here_ , Regis lifts his chin,

And here, those dark eyes go _steely_ ,

And Geralt is reminded just how _deadly_ Regis is when the vampire lifts a brow and says, deceptively _calm_ and measured, “ _mind yourself,_ Geralt,”

But,

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, and now it’s his turn to reach out, catches Regis’ forearm and meets his steely gaze with purpose, “truly. I am.”

“I do not need your _apologies_ , Geralt,” and Regis sounds so damn _tired_ when he says it, so fucking _somber_ , and Geralt grits his teeth as he slides his hand down to grasp the vampire’s, squeezing lightly, until; “do not become the fool who _runs_ , Geralt. Promise me,”

And,

“I don’t think I could,” Geralt says plainly, because it’s _true_ , and Regis’ slender hand tightens around his own before they break apart, and Geralt reaches instead to gather up one of Jaskier’s limp, fire-hot hands between both of his own,

And he draws it to his lips, as,

_Forgive me,_

_Maybe,_

And,

_Be selfish with me,_

And,

_Not a cruel dream, then,_

“No,” Geralt murmurs absently as he thumbs over Jaskier’s knuckles, as he watches Jaskier’s eyes flutter behind their shuttered lids, “just a cruel reality,” _but_ ,

He can’t bring himself to _leave_ ,

And,

There’s no pain in the _world_ like this,

Like knowing he _should_ ,

Knowing he _can’t_ ,

Because letting this _go_ would mean his _end,_

And how fucking _selfish_ is that?

But _he can’t_ – can’t quite figure this one _out,_

Because Geralt would die _so_ willingly for Jaskier,

But –

_A love worth dying for is a love worth living for, my friend,_

And,

_Where you go, I go, little lark,_

_One day we’ll cross the veil,_

_But we’ll be lucky enough to live and love before we do,_

But,

There’s no living _without_ Jaskier,

And maybe that makes him _weak_ ,

But Jaskier is the _only fucking thing_ that’s _ever_ brought him to his knees,

And if he is to _repent_ for the ways he’s failed Jaskier,

There is no better penance than _loving_ Jaskier as _fiercely_ as he always _longed_ to,

With as much _devotion_ as he can pull from his steel-strapped bones,

Because –

_I know you’re holding back, Witcher,_

_Don’t you dare hold back with me,_

_Be selfish with me, Geralt,_

And,

He’s been loving Jaskier with half a foot suspended in _disbelief_ , has been loving him with _half_ of his too-slow heart as he kept the other holding its breath, waiting for the moment when Jaskier would realize trying to _love_ Geralt’s half-beating heart _wasn’t –_

Wasn’t worth the _suffering_ ,

And he’s been loving Jaskier through the smog of his _guilt_ , his _grief_ , his _fear_ ,

But there’s no _place_ for that between them, not anymore,

And Geralt has _failed_ Jaskier so many times,

_But –_

“There you are,”

And,

Geralt lowers the steel blade he’s sharpening and turns as Jaskier’s voice floats over the dusky twilight settling across the lost, forgotten graveyard,

And he looks –

 _Gods_ ,

He looks –

So fucking _beautiful,_

All wrapped up in one of Geralt’s spare tunics, practically _swimming_ in it,

And his hair is freshly washed and still a little damp, dusting in elegant waves over his brow,

And his _eyes_ ,

Gods,

Geralt could _drown_ in those eyes,

The eyes that seem bluer than the damn _sky_ in the height of summer,

And Jaskier watches Geralt with apprehension in those sky-blue eyes as the Witcher rises to his feet,

And Geralt’s rooted in place as Jaskier meanders across the forgotten graveyard at the edge of Toussaint that Regis has made into a temporary home,

And _Geralt can’t –_

He can’t find Jaskier’s _heartbeat_ ,

And he can’t _quite_ get a hold on his _scent_ ,

Not until Jaskier is _close_ ,

Not until the bard is a scant half-foot away does Geralt pick up on the _subtle_ patter of the bard’s changed heartbeat, on the soft scent of _cedar_ , of _smoke_ , of _summer rose_ ,

And Jaskier watches Geralt with apprehension in his sky-blue eyes,

And Geralt _aches_ , aches in his _throat_ , in his _gut_ , in his _chest_ ,

Somewhere in the _core_ of him, in the thing he might call a soul, and,

He’s _failed_ Jaskier _so many times,_

But Jaskier is _still_ –

Still _his,_

And,

“I asked that Regis fellow if you, uh, _left_ ,” Jaskier says then, and Geralt’s heart starts to _writhe_ as it splits in two, “if _you’d_ – left _because of,_ of what I – uh. _Am_ , now,”

“And how did that go?” Geralt rasps, sounding about as good as he feels, and Jaskier’s jaw clenches as he licks his lips, as his eyes start to swell with diamonds,

“He, uh,” the bard huffs, ducking his head as his ears go pink, “he _laughed_ at me, actually,”

And Geralt’s throat burns as he lets out a mangled laugh of his own, _because_ –

“Sounds about right,”

And Jaskier lets out a hum, but _he won’t_ – doesn’t _look_ at Geralt, not until the Witcher gets bold enough to slide a hand under his chin; Jaskier’s skin is _cool_ to the touch, but it grows warm beneath his palm as Geralt lifts his lover’s face, as he tries to swallow against his heart-packed throat,

As he thumbs over Jaskier’s lips and _hears_ it, hears it _all over again_ ,

The roar of _agony_ that Jaskier had let out when the Bruxa tore into his side, when she ripped into his throat as the higher vampire that was her master roared, “ _Tusiva! No!”_

But it was too fucking little, too fucking late,

And he still sees Jaskier go _down_ whenever he shuts his eyes,

Sees him hit the black marble floor in the _ruin_ that was once a _ballroom_ in the estate where they’d cornered Dettlaff van der Eretein and his small army of fanged beasts,

 _Just_ as he still feels the weight of Jaskier in his arms when he’d caught him in the cavern on the mountain near two years ago, _and_ ,

Geralt hasn’t slept in the past _week_ while Jaskier’s body _changed_ ,

While it was _unmade_ and born _anew_ ,

And,

“I knew you – hadn’t gone. I can – I can, uh – _smell_ you,” Jaskier says stiltedly, “you – smell… like…”

“Heroics and heartbreak?” Geralt manages, and Jaskier’s smile is some small reward, however _fleeting_ it is,

“ _Home_ ,” Jaskier murmurs; he sounds _wonderstruck_ as he says it, and then he’s reaching out - but before he can touch Geralt, he drops his hand and bites his lip,

And Geralt’s heart is splitting in _two_ ,

But it all but _shatters_ when Jaskier asks - quiet, _tight_ \- “do you still – want me?”

_And,_

Geralt doesn’t know _what_ kind of sound it is that he lets out,

Thinks it might be akin to the sound one lets out when they’ve been lanced through the damn _gut_ ,

But,

The sound comes _unbidden_ as he moves without thinking _twice_ about it,

Moves to take Jaskier’s face between his hands,

And the bard barely has a _moment_ to catch a hitching breath between his teeth before Geralt’s sealing their mouths together with a _bruising_ force,

The kind of force that has them both staggering with it, but Jaskier _moves_ with Geralt, moves _into_ him, hands clinging to Geralt’s black tunic,

And he _moves_ with Geralt because he _knows_ – knows that Geralt would _never_ let him fall,

Even if he _has_ ,

And,

Even though Geralt _has_ let him fall - once in the cavern when Jaskier took an arrow to the gut, the arrow _meant_ for _Geralt_ ,

And _again_ , to the black marble floor in the ruin of what was once a ballroom in the estate where Dettlaff van der Eretein had _taken Jaskier_ to _lure_ Geralt into a _truce_ –

Jaskier moves _with_ Geralt as they stagger, and he moves with Geralt because he _knows_ that Geralt will catch him close, will keep him safe and _whole_ in the circle of his iron-strong arms,

And Geralt _does_ ,

Catches Jaskier against his chest as the bard slides his arms around Geralt’s neck, as he _clings_ and presses up against the Witcher, body molding to Geralt’s with a _desperation_ Geralt can smell like _dry_ desert heat, like sunlight spilling over _parched_ earth, like forgotten headstones bathed in _moss_ ,

And Geralt kisses Jaskier with _agony_ cupped in his tongue,

As he catches Jaskier _impossibly_ close and swallows down the _breathless_ , aching, “ _Geralt_ ,” the bard lets out; his sonorous voice is wound _so_ taut, is all _knotted up_ in a fear-soaked _pain_ that has Geralt’s soul _heaving_ in the cusp of his bones, has the _shattered_ pieces of his _fool_ heart swirling into an inferno in the brimstone cavern of his chest, _and_ ,

“There’s no living,” Geralt manages, and the words come spilling out as Jaskier’s lips part with a staggering, choked gasp just a hair’s breadth from his own, as the bard nuzzles against the bridge of the Witcher’s crooked nose, “without _you_ ,”

And,

“What I _am now_ –“

But,

“You are what you’ve _always_ been,” Geralt says fiercely, and he barely recognizes his own voice now, as; “you are what you’ve _always_ been, little lark – _mine_ ,” and,

He tastes _saltwater_ when Jaskier huffs against his lips,

And Geralt walks him a few paces back until he’s crowding Jaskier up against the ivy-curtained side of a massive _tomb_ , a thing so _old_ the names have _long_ since faded away, and this is a _forgotten_ place, a forgotten place full of spirits that once _lived_ and _loved_ like the two beating hearts stumbling over themselves do _now_ ,

But –

_Well,_

Not _quite_ ,

Because Geralt doesn’t think there’s _ever_ been a love like this,

And maybe that’s _selfish_ ,

But,

_Be selfish with me,_

And,

“I thought I’d _lost_ you,” Geralt breathes as Jaskier cups his face between shaking hands, “I thought –“

“For a moment,” Jaskier murmurs, hips straining as Geralt slides his hands up under the tunic he’s practically _swimming_ in, “I think you _did_ ,” and,

“Regis – told me it was _you_. Your blood that -“ and,

“It _healed_ me,”

And,

The way Jaskier is _looking_ at him –

“I would’ve given it _all_ ,” Geralt says hoarsely as Jaskier looks at him like he’s some kind of _miracle_ and not the _weak_ , wounded heart that’s _failed_ him time and again, “I would’ve given _everything_ to save you,”

And Jaskier’s scent is _ever shifting,_ keeps oscillating between desperate _need_ and something hedging on _panic_ , has Geralt’s gut tangling up in _knots_ as he presses a lingering, _aching_ kiss to the bard’s lips, a kiss he prays speaks in a language Jaskier will find some _belief_ in, because Jaskier keeps _looking_ at Geralt like he’s a _miracle_ wrapped around a _nightmare_ , 

Looks at Geralt with equal parts _fear_ and _adoration_ ,

And Geralt chews through his throttling _guilt_ as he kisses down Jaskier’s throat, _over the_ – the _scars_ that _mark_ him, the scars in the shape of Regis’ fangs,

The fangs that _saved him_ when Geralt _couldn’t_ ,

And,

“I know there’s little use in being afraid,” Jaskier says quietly, clever fingertips crawling up over Geralt’s chest, fiddling with the buttons of his tunic, “if you’ve not gotten _sick_ of me by now, I don’t think you _ever_ will, _even_ – even with the, uh, the – _teeth_. Don’t – just _hold on_ , there’s a point coming,”

And Geralt stays silent as the bard chews his lip, as he fiddles with Geralt’s buttons and slips a few open until he can palm over the bare skin of the Witcher’s chest, and an all-consuming fondness swells up into Geralt’s throat as Jaskier murmurs, “I _know_ there’s little use in being _afraid_ , because I – I _know_ you, I know how you – how you _are_ , with - _monsters_ ,” and,

“Things are going to be different, now, aren’t they?” and,

“I mean, I _knew_ that, I _know_ they will, because I’ve – I’ve got the _teeth_ , and Regis says I don’t strictly _need_ blood to survive, but, I’m. Different. I’m _different_ , Geralt, so this – _this_ is different, isn’t it? Aren’t we?”

And Jaskier sounds as if he’s begging Geralt to give him the answer to a riddle Geralt never asked, an answer Geralt doesn’t have because –

“I _love_ you,” Geralt says quietly, and Jaskier makes a soft, _mangled_ sound in his throat as his brow furrows and those blue eyes start to swell with renewed tears, “I love you just as I did an hour ago, a day ago – I love you the same right now as I did the moment I met you, and I will love you the same way I do in this moment for as long as _you_ allow me to. You’re _alive_ , Jaskier, and that’s all I give a _damn_ about,”

But,

“ _The_ – the moment you _met_ me, huh?” Jaskier manages, voice gone syrup-thick, and Geralt’s too-slow heart starts to _swell_ as the bard clears his throat to _no_ avail; “now don’t go _saying things_ like that _just to_ – to _soothe_ me, Geralt of Rivia, you _know_ better, you know –“

“I do,”

“Know I’ll take that to _heart_ , now,”

“And you should,”

“And that’s _so_ unfair, this is _beyond_ unfair,”

“Yet it’s _true_ ,”

“All that time, _you_ –“

“ _All_ that time,” Geralt burrs, and Jaskier’s chest hitches as he bites out a _sharp_ , breaking, _“fuck_ ,” before surging up and kissing Geralt with enough force the Witcher tips back, arms catching Jaskier about the waist again when the bard moves _with_ him, all because he _knows_ Geralt would _never_ let him fall, because _Geralt_ knows that while he bears the _guilt_ for the times Jaskier has,

 _Jaskier_ isn’t the one who draped that guilt across his _world-weary_ shoulders,

And Jaskier _clings_ to Geralt as the Witcher catches him around the slender waist, as he hauls Jaskier in _impossibly_ close, and Jaskier huffs out a soft breath when saltwater smears between their mouths,

But _this_ time,

 _Despite_ the saltwater that stings their lips, liquid diamonds that fall from sunlit and sky-blue eyes,

 _This_ kiss,

Is a thing fueled by sheer, _furious_ need,

A thing that has _far_ sharper fangs than the fledgling vampire Geralt cages to his chest,

And once those fangs sink into the pair of them,

There’s no shaking them _loose_ ,

And Jaskier steps on Geralt’s boots as the Witcher curls a hand around the nape of his neck, as Geralt gentles Jaskier’s lips apart with a coaxing tongue, and Jaskier tastes of copper and _mint_ , of _heat_ and something so _honey-sweet_ it’s got Geralt’s cock swelling in his breeches,

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier groans, sounding absolutely _wrecked_ already, and Geralt’s spine unfurls with instinct as the bard smears his lips down the side of his throat, as Jaskier breathes, “I can _smell_ you,” _and_ ,

“I can – _fuck_ , Geralt, I can – _smell_ how much you – _want_ me,” and,

“I can _smell_ –“ and,

Jaskier’s clever hand sinks down until he’s ghosting tentative fingertips over the swell of the Witcher’s cock in his breeches, and those blue eyes are ringed in _silver_ when they flicker up to meet Geralt’s, and _it’s_ – Gods, _he’s so_ –

“You’re so beautiful,” Geralt breathes, and Jaskier moves _with_ him when he starts to lower them to the ground, lets the Witcher bear him back to the bed of _thick_ , emerald moss beside the massive, forgotten, ivy-dripping _tomb_ ,

And,

“I thought I’d _lost_ you,” the Witcher burrs against Jaskier’s mouth as the bard’s clever fingers pop the buttons on his tunic, “I thought –“

“I know,” Jaskier says quietly, and Geralt gathers up the bard’s tunic as Jaskier pushes his own from his war-torn shoulders, “I’ve never heard you sound like that, the way you sounded when – when I fell,” and,

“I thought the house would come down when you roared,” and,

“I’ve _never_ seen you weep like that,”

And,

“There is no living,” Geralt murmurs as he toes out of his boots and unlaces Jaskier’s breeches, as he strips out of his own and settles between the bard’s pale thighs once there’s nothing left between them but the jarring thrum of a _grief_ that came far too close to being _real_ , and Geralt frames Jaskier’s jaw as he breathes, “not without _you_ ,”

And Jaskier’s silver-rimmed eyes are _so_ bright, are still _bleeding_ diamonds as he cranes his neck and _pleads_ silently for a kiss, one Geralt is _helpless_ to surrendering, lips sticky and clinging with lingering tears,

“ _Geralt_ ,” and Jaskier sounds _just_ this side of _sunk_ as his hips strain beneath Geralt’s, as his thighs tremble and _cling_ , as his scent grows _thick_ , heady and so _sweet_ ,

As he _moans,_ “ _fuck_ , I can _smell_ you, wolf,” and,

“ _Gods_ , is this – is this what it’s _like_ for you?” and,

“You smell _like you’re_ – are you _hurt_ , are you –“

And,

Geralt’s cock _throbs_ when he hushes the fledgling beneath him, _because_ –

“It’s no _wound_ you’re smelling, little lark,” he burrs against Jaskier’s jaw, calloused hands sliding up the bard’s ribs as Jaskier’s chest hitches and _jumps_ , “but it _aches_ like one,” and,

“You can smell how I _need_ you,” and,

Geralt reaches for the pack leaning up against the side of the ivy-soaked tomb, the _forgotten_ one, the one with the faded names of souls who _tried_ to live and _love_ as the beating hearts beside the house holding the dead do,

As Jaskier noses over his throat, as he splays his hands over Geralt’s back and arches up beneath him, sweet, pink-headed cock sliding up against the Witcher’s, and Geralt growls _low_ when Jaskier lets out another _rugged_ , aching, “ _fuck_ ,” and,

“ _Geralt_ , you –“ and,

“ _Gods_ , you smell so –“ and,

“ _I_ , my wolf, _please_ , I –“ and,

Jaskier sounds like he can’t _quite_ catch his breath as he rolls his hips and tries to _speak_ ,

And Geralt’s chest blooms with concern as he looks down at the fledgling, as he cups Jaskier’s jaw and thumbs over his lips - but then Jaskier’s _wicked_ , clever tongue meets the pad of his finger and _all_ rational thought dribbles out the back of his skull,

And when he tries to pull away even a _fraction_ , Jaskier lets out a _truly_ , absolutely obscene _whine_ , the kind of whine that shoots _right_ down between the Witcher’s legs, the kind of whine that has his cock _bleeding_ pearls, _and_ –

“Oh, _Gods_ ,” Jaskier groans, sonorous voice full of gravel, “ _Geralt_ , darling, I _need_ – please,”

“I _have_ you, I’m right here,”

“Let me _feel_ you, wolf, _let me_ –“

And then Jaskier is _rambling_ , and Geralt scents fresh salt as he draws a vial of oil into his palm, as Jaskier _rambles_ ,

Says things _like_ ;

“I thought you were going to watch me _die_ ,” and,

“I thought I was about to _leave_ you,” and,

“I _can’t_ , Geralt, I can’t _leave you behind,”_

And,

“ _Breathe_ , little lark,” and Geralt catches Jaskier’s chin in one hand, forces those silver-ringed eyes forward, “stay _here_ , stay with me, Jaskier,” which,

 _Really_ ,

Is the _wrong_ thing to say,

And he _knows_ it even as he _says it,_

Because then Geralt can hear himself begging –

_Jaskier, look at me,_

_Stay with me, love, stay with me,_

_Don’t close your eyes, look at me, Jaskier – Jaskier!_

And,

Jaskier’s nose _furls_ ,

But before Geralt can utter more than a single note,

The bard tangles a hand up in the chain around the Witcher’s neck and drags Geralt down into a kiss that tastes of copper and _iron_ , a kiss that’s all slick _fang_ and demanding, _stinging_ tongue,

And Geralt can taste the _command_ in it,

Can _smell_ Jaskier’s desperate, _gnawing_ , all-consuming _need_ ,

Smells it like an open _wound_ ,

Just as Jaskier can smell _Geralt’s_ , now, can scent out the way the Witcher _wants_ him, the way Geralt _bleeds_ in silence, _all_ for the love of _him_ , and,

There are no _right words,_ not for _this_ ,  
So,

Geralt slides a slick hand between Jaskier’s parted thighs,

As Jaskier arches up beneath him in a _desperate_ bid to get as close as he possibly can to the Witcher that cages him to the moss-bedded ground, the ground that plays host to the bones of the spirits that tried to _live_ and _love_ as _they do,_

But Geralt doesn’t think there’s _ever_ been a love like _this one_ , and,

Jaskier’s pupils are _bleeding_ past his sky-blue irises as Geralt works him loose, as he curls his fingers to hit the bundle of nerves inside the fledgling vampire that makes him _keen_ and cry out, makes that lithe body _twist_ and _bow_ ,

And Jaskier reeks of clean sweat and the honey-sweet _musk_ of his seed, the seed that _oozes_ from the pink head of his cock,

And Geralt grips Jaskier’s hips hard enough to _bruise_ as he sinks into the hot, _tight_ clutch of his body, as he bows over Jaskier and laves his tongue through the dew going cold on his belly, as he drags greedy teeth over the clenching plains of Jaskier’s muscle and noses up under one of his arms,

“Can you _feel_ me, sweet thing?” Geralt burrs against Jaskier’s throat as he fucks into him with purposeful, gouging thrusts, “ _look_ at me, Jaskier,” and,

The fledgling _does_ ,

And his eyes are _so_ fucking _dark_ , as dark as the velvet night as they flicker over Geralt’s face,

As they drink him down like he’s the only salvation Jaskier has ever known, and,

Geralt _swears_ ,

Swears on his _foolish_ , too-slow, _healing_ heart,

That they’ve slipped into some _new reality,_ one carved out _just_ for the pair of them,

As Jaskier gazes up at Geralt with complete _devotion_ flooding his _nightstruck_ eyes,

As Geralt coaxes pleasure through the fledgling until Jaskier is _writhing_ with it, until Jaskier is panting _hard_ and _quick_ against Geralt’s lips, until he’s _drooling_ blood with the way his fangs keep cutting his tender skin, and Geralt’s licking it up before he knows what he’s doing, is catching the ruby droplets on his tongue as Jaskier _whimpers_ and _digs_ his heels into the meat of the Witcher’s ass,

As he keens his way through a vicious, aching command of - “ _harder_ , darling, oh, _just_ like that, _right_ there, fuck, _oh, oh_ – “ and,

 _Lightning_ clatters down Geralt’s spine when he curls a hand around Jaskier’s weeping cock and the bard lets out a cry of sheer, _unburdened_ ecstasy,

_And,_

“That’s it,” Geralt murmurs against the fledgling’s ear, pride and adoration threatening to strangle the life from him as they clash together in his throat, “ _that’s_ it, little lark, I _have_ you, I’ve got you,”

But then –

“Geralt – _Geralt_ , please, I _can’t_ – “

“ _Don’t_ , sweet thing, let _go_ , I’ve got you, I’m right here,”

And it _burns_ , when Jaskier grabs at Geralt’s back and clings to him with fingertips gone _brutal_ ,

When he drags red _ruin_ down Geralt’s spine,

But Geralt doesn’t _stop_ ,

Can’t,

 _Wouldn’t_ , not for _anything_ ,

And the _pain_ – the pain starts to _urge_ his pleasure to new heights as it unfurls across his spine,

As Jaskier pants _rough_ and _ragged_ against the side of his throat,

And the pressure gathering _just_ under Geralt’s navel is set to _splinter_ as he fucks into the divine, _tight_ heat of Jaskier’s writhing body, as he pumps his cock in time with his thrusts,

Until Jaskier comes undone with a dulcet, _honeyed_ keen,

And it’s beyond _any_ kind of deliverance, to sink into the atmosphere of the bard’s scent,

To bask in the _smell_ of him,

The _taste_ of him, like _holywine_ on Geralt’s tongue, and,

He’d thought he’d _lost_ Jaskier,

Kept seeing him _fall_ every damn time he shut his _aching_ eyes,

But by some _miracle_ ,

Jaskier is _alive_ ,

Is _whole_ ,

Hale,

Strong and _thrumming_ with it beneath him, and,

Geralt parts his lips over the saving scar on Jaskier’s throat as he grips Jaskier’s slender hips and buries himself between the fledgling’s _clinging_ thighs, _all_ while Jaskier arches beneath him and moans, “ _fuck_ , Geralt, the way you _smell_ , oh, _fuck_ ,” and,

“I love you, I love you,” and,

“I can – _feel_ you, I feel you _everywhere_ ,”

And Geralt’s eyes _burn_ as he noses up under Jaskier’s jaw,

As he nuzzles up beneath his ear, where the scent of him is the strongest, the scent of cedar, of smoke, of summer rose,

And,

“Tell me,” Geralt says quietly, one hand splaying over Jaskier’s chest, “tell me what you feel, little lark,”

“ _You_ ,” Jaskier rasps as he covers Geralt’s hand with his own, “I feel – _you_ , as if –“

“We were _one_ ,”

“Y-yeah,” the fledgling breathes,

And Geralt tips back to meet Jaskier’s eyes, eyes gone _sky-blue_ once more,

“You were right,” he murmurs, thumbing over the bard’s lips, _already healed over_ , and that – _that_ has Geralt’s heart swelling with a _relief_ he’s not tasted _in_ \- “things are different. Your kind… Things like _us_ , Jaskier… they love _differently_ , love – to the bitter end,”

And here, Jaskier’s brow _furrows_ ,

And here, Geralt finds himself falling headlong in love _all_ over again,

As Jaskier slides a hand over the side of his Witcher’s face,

As he says, _so_ softly, “then nothing’s changed at all. Not for me,” and,

All Geralt can _do_ ,

 _Gods_ ,

 _All_ he can do,

Is utter a _wrenching_ , love-lost “ _Jaskier_ ,” against the fledgling’s lips as he winds _tight_ , protecting arms around him, as he pulls Jaskier off the moss-bedded ground to cradle him like the precious thing he _is_ ,

And Jaskier’s body _thrums_ with a _new_ kind of strength now,

One Geralt thinks was _always_ lurking just beneath the surface,

_No –_

Doesn’t think,

 _Knows_ ,

Has _tasted_ ,

 _Felt_ ,

 _Seen_ ,

Been _saved_ by,

And _that’s the thing_ , isn’t it?

Jaskier was _always_ a thing with fangs,

A thing with _unbreakable_ bones,

A thing with a kind of innate, unlearnable _strength_ one _Geralt of Rivia_ could only _dream_ of,

And it was _that_ strength that saved him,

 _Not_ the sorcery-soaked blood running through Geralt’s veins,

Not the _desperate_ prayers Geralt spoke silently over his reforged body,

It was Jaskier’s strength that _saved him_ ,

And maybe this _brief_ , almost-tragedy _was_ the hand of some _destiny_ ,

The same destiny that had steered one _Princess Cirilla_ to him that day in the forest,

The same destiny that had brought Geralt to Yennefer’s doorstep in a _desperate_ bid to save his bleeding heart,

The _same_ destiny that brought _Jaskier_ to him,

When Jaskier was _eighteen_ and _bright-eyed_ and yet unscathed,

Eighteen and bright-eyed but hiding _fangs_ behind his _dashing_ , quicksilver smile, _and_ ,

Maybe this almost-tragedy was _meant to be,_

Because _now_ , Jaskier has the _real_ fangs to match the ones he hides behind his quicksilver smiles,

And _now_ , Jaskier heals _faster_ than even _Geralt_ does,

And _now_ ,

“Not going to go grey anymore, little lark,” Geralt murmurs against Jaskier’s brow as he cards his fingers through the bardling’s chestnut hair,  
And they’re wrapped around one another on a cot tucked away behind a vast mahogany cabinet in the crypt Regis calls his home here in Toussaint,

And _tomorrow_ , Geralt will have to deal with Anna Henrietta and her court,

Will have to deliver the news that this _Beast of Beauclair_ might be a _little more difficult_ to hunt than he initially _anticipated_ ,

But for _now_ ,

Geralt slides an arm around Jaskier’s lithe waist as the fledgling’s lips part _slow_ and _sticky_ , as those sky-blue eyes go _wide_ with the _dawning realization,_

As the bardling’s face _splits_ in a _quicksilver grin,_

And Geralt’s heart stumbles over itself when Jaskier presses that grin to his lips,

And Jaskier’s _always_ had a kind of strength _one Geralt of Rivia_ could only ever _dream_ of,

And it shows _now_ , as Jaskier pulls back, as he arches a brow and says blithely, “seems _destiny_ rolled the dice in our favor for once, didn’t she?” but,

“Seems so,” Geralt says faintly even as he thinks, _she always has,_

_Because look at us,_

_Look at what we have,_

_Look at what we’ve built,_

_Look at what you’ve_ made of me _, Jaskier,_

_A man who needs,_

_Who_ is _needed,_

_A man who loves,_

And,

_Do not become the fool who runs, Geralt,_

But,

He never _could_ ,

Not for long,

 _Because_ -

“I love you, my wolf,” Jaskier says quietly, fingertips splaying over Geralt’s lips, “to the bitter end,”

And,

“A _very_ distant end,” Geralt burrs, and Jaskier’s cheek tightens under his thumb when the bard smiles, “the _sweetest_ end, so long as I have you in my arms,”

“ _Distant_ still, though, right?” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt is _helpless_ to it, helpless to rolling the fledgling back into the furs blanketing the cot when those sky-blue eyes go _dewy_ , get _just_ this side of _too bright,_

And Geralt kisses Jaskier _slow_ and _so_ deep, until the bardling is arching up beneath him, until he’s _clinging_ to Geralt with _possessive_ arms and clutching thighs,

Until the scent of _saltwater_ is overwhelmed by _need_ , and,

“A love worth dying for,” Geralt says quietly as he _drowns_ in those sky-blue pools ringed in silver, “is a love worth living for,”

And,

“ _All_ this time, my wolf?”

“ _All_ this time, little lark,”


End file.
